Chapter 9 #2
As I unlock the door, I can hear Hamlet’s yowling through the walls.
He must have had quite the exciting day if he can’t even wait for me to come inside before he starts telling me all about it.
Opening the door carefully, I find him waiting right inside.
“Hi, my friend,” I say as I reach down to scratch his chin.
He rubs against my ankles, continuing his constant meowing.
When I bend down to remove my shoes, Hamlet leaps onto my back and settles on my shoulders as I stand up. “Missed me, huh?” I ask as I walk to the kitchenette. This blazer will definitely need a trip to the dry cleaner now.
“Why don’t you tell me about your day while I make dinner?
” I tell Hamlet as I reach a hand up to scratch his chest, which is positioned right next to my ear.
He meows the entire time I heat up a bowl of spicy ramen noodles.
I really need to figure out some better meals if I’m going to be here for a while.
Take-out options are sorely lacking. Especially healthy ones.
As much as I’d hoped to be in and out of this town as quickly as possible, it’s looking less and less like a quick fix.
At least I have Madison’s feisty presence keeping me company so I don’t completely lose my mind here.
Hamlet meows extra loudly in my ear as if he could read my thoughts.
“Sorry, buddy. You’re right—I always have you to keep me company.
I'm sorry I haven’t been around much. I’d hoped that putting in a few long days would magically fix the problem here and we could get back to Houston.
But that’s not looking very promising. I swear I’ll try to be around more. ”
Hamlet meows loudly once more before jumping off of my shoulders and padding over to his food dish. Meow. I smile at his demanding demeanor and scoop dinner into his dish. “Trust me, Hamlet—you don’t want to know what that food looks like before it makes its way to you.”
Meow.
As we eat our respective meals, I send a text to Hana to see if she’s awake to chat, even though I hope she’s asleep. Ten minutes later, my phone rings with her video call.
“Hey, Night Owl,” I say.
She forgoes a greeting altogether. “Where are you?” she asks, narrowing her eyes and leaning closer to the screen.
“In my temporary residence for my latest assignment,” I reply, withholding as much information as possible.
“Is this like some sort of studio condo or something?” she asks, and I realize the bed is visible behind me based on the angle of my phone screen.
“Something like that. How are classes going?” I inquire, hoping to change the subject from my current location.
“But where are you? Where’s the latest assignment located?” she presses.
I roll my eyes and deflect by accusing her of deflecting. “Are you saying classes aren’t going well? Are you getting too distracted by all the men with British accents to focus on school?”
“You’re making things up!” she huffs indignantly. “I’ll have you know that I received high marks on my first big research paper about The Canterbury Tales. And you know they’re grading more harshly than a university in America, so I essentially got the equivalent of an A.”
“Oh, I know this, huh?” I tease. “I think you’re just making excuses, and the accents are distracting you from A-quality work.”
“Ha ha,” she says. “What would you know about distractions? You never get distracted by the women around you, even though I try to convince you to pay attention.”
I shrug. “There’s no point in paying attention when I’m constantly moving around.
And I’m never home in Houston long enough to go on more than a few dates with someone.
It wouldn’t exactly be chivalrous to start a relationship and then ask her to wait around until the next time I’m home for a few weeks. ”
“You don’t have to keep gallivanting around all the time, constantly saving the business world from self-destruction. Surely you could find some catastrophes to avert from the same home base,” Hana says, shaking her head in disapproval.
I don’t know what possesses me—possibly that disapproving head shake—but the words “I have met an interesting girl here” are out of my mouth before I think to stop myself.
Hana immediately sits up straight and leans forward. “What?! You’re interested in a girl?”
I give her a taste of her disapproving-head-shake medicine. “You’re twisting what I said. I said I ‘met an interesting girl,’ not, ‘I’m interested in a girl.’”
“I think you’re splitting hairs,” Hana says, grinning. “Which only convinces me more that you’re interested.”
“Our ten-year age gap is showing. Stop being juvenile,” I scoff. “There’s a woman named Madison staying across the way from me. She’s . . . spunky. And she’s starting her own business, so we’ve struck up a sort of competition on who can accomplish more each day.”
Hana facepalms her forehead. “Only you could get into a productivity competition with someone. And then call that connection.”
“Well, it’s at least making my time here more interesting.”
“Which is where, again?” Hana asks, eyebrow quirked.
I’m saved from skirting her question by Hamlet jumping onto my lap and meowing loudly at Hana’s face on the screen.
“Heya, Ham, you sweet boy,” she says in a high-pitched voice.
“Hana,” I groan, emphasizing the Korean pronunciation of her name, which sounds similar to Han—like Han Solo—followed by an ah sound. Hamlet meows along with me. “Just call him ‘Hamlet,’ for goodness’ sake.”
“I’ll stop calling him ‘Ham’ when you tell me where you are and confess your undying love for Madison,” Hana counters.
“I love . . . you. Go to sleep,” I say and end the call with an exaggerated jab at the phone screen.